I got a man, Charlie Dawson, on his way to the Barnum Hotel right now, to tell that shit-heel Crockett he better haul his ass out here in a hurry if he hopes to dig you up alive, you damn quivering little worm.

"THINK ONLY THIS OF ME," he wrote in one of his last letters to Aherne, "that in some corner of a crummy foreign village there lives, for the time being, that old shit-heel from St. Petersburg -- Sanders."